Haunting
by SuperSonic21
Summary: During Dean's year in Purgatory, Sam doesn't stop hunting - while still mourning his brother, he ends up having to join the Ghostfacers, and help them out on some tricky cases. They help him enjoy hunting again, and accept that Dean is gone. Set in the year between seasons 7 and 8. AU.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: **__this is a fic I wrote today based on a prompt from Lyzzybelle, which I'll continue if people are interested. The prompt was:  
"During Dean's Year in purgatory, Sam didn't stop hunting...instead he became the star of Ghostfacers!" So I thought I'd write an angsty version of that :)_

_Let me know what you think so far! I have a little more of it written, but not that much, so I'll do some more when I have time. _

* * *

_Don't say that to me. Don't you say that to me. _

Sam was sweating again. He knew it even before he properly woke up: the uncomfortable feeling permeated his dreams, making him aware that, _yes_, they were just dreams, but the sensation was real.

Well, they weren't _just_ dreams. None of them were. They weren't even nightmares – just memories. Just the cold reality; the cold light of day filtering through wispy curtains, into the room. They weren't evil, they were just the truth.

Sam opened his eyes reluctantly, and then wondered why he did. He didn't shut them again, just stared up at the ceiling, his eyes repetitively tracing the same patterns as they did every morning, every day, when he woke up. The grain of the wood was all too familiar now, and he hated it. He remembered a time when he was restless: up at 4a.m. and ready for the road, aching for a car journey that would twist his back and strain his knees but that he would enjoy because it wasn't really about the car, or the road, or even the hunt, it was about –

He blinked the thoughts away, the tiny movement enough to send them away; to shake them off. It was getting easier. But it was still too hard.

Then he heard it: the sound that had awoken him.

Three thuds at the door.

He felt all of his muscles tense with practised readiness for a brawl. He felt none of the urge to survive, to get out of bed and see what it was, that his body apparently had in spades. But if he didn't go, he'd be on edge. And besides, what if it was –

It wasn't. He knew that much. But no one knew where he was; what he was doing. No one knew he didn't get out of bed most days, and that he slept fourteen hours a night, exercised, ate twice, and went to bed again. No one knew that he was on autopilot. No one knew that he was lost. That's because he didn't know anyone – not anymore. They were all gone. Everyone who knew or cared whether he lived or died was gone, and it'd been that way for a month now . . . Maybe two.

So who was at the door?

He pulled a shirt on, not bothering to change into jeans from his sweatpants, and grabbed his sawn-off and holy water flask from under his bed. He padded as lightly as he could to the door, which wasn't easy, because the cabin's wood floor had seen a lot of action in its time, and was prone to complaining about it at the best of times. Right now was not the best of times, obviously.

"Sam Winchester?" Called a man from the other side of the door. Sam didn't think he recognised the voice, and frowned. Maybe he wasn't as alone in the world as he'd been thinking . . . Or maybe a demon was about to finally get to him, after years and years of caution, in a cabin in the back-woods of Whitefish, Montana. He sighed to himself, thinking that the voice sounded a little too nasal to belong to a demon's usual choice of host – big, manly, strong, rather than weedy and small. Which is what he was expecting, from how the man spoke.

Pressing the barrel of the gun to the door, Sam turned the handle to the door, and was transported back to all those years ago: letting Ruby into his makeshift home, shotgun pressed to the door, equally annoyed as he was now. He'd been alone then, too. He'd made a very bad mistake. But he had an excuse – the big excuse, the big hole in his life, where there used to be –

"Uh . . . Sam?"

Sam squinted into the warm sunlight that poured into the dark cabin, physically recoiling, and throwing his free hand up to his face to shade it. It was then he realised what he must look like – basically in his pyjamas, with a face full of scruff.

"Yeah, who-" He looked down at the caller – actually, four callers – three men, and one woman – they looked vaguely familiar. He tried to recall some names, and then cursed inwardly. "Oh, c'mon, not you guys-" He pleaded with some cruel deity.  
"Yeah!" The guy he reckoned was the leader said, almost enthusiastically annoying.  
"How'd you even find me?" Sam asked with a big sigh, and realised that his voice was a little gravelly with disuse. He mustn't have spoken in weeks, he reckoned.  
"Seriously?" The second man asked, raising and eyebrow and sounding a little unsure. "Garth, obviously,"

"Gar-" Sam got half-way through the name, and then scrubbed a hand down his face. He literally couldn't believe his luck. These idiots knew Garth. And he'd sent them here. Just, perfect.  
"So, um – gonna invite us in?" Asked the woman, looking into the cabin, trying to peak around the corner and have a quick nosy look around. That was when Sam realised he was being filmed.  
"Hey, get that – get those out of my face," He huffed, and both the last man and the woman exchanged sheepish looks.  
"Sorry," The man with the camera said, lowering it slightly, but not putting it away. "We thought you'd look more . . . Impressive," Sam rolled his eyes.  
"Why are you even here, uh . . ." Sam struggled to remember the name of the leader – the ginger one, it was something like . . .

"Ed," He supplied, and cleared his throat, "We'd like to invite you to become the newest member of the Ghostfacers!" He said proudly.

Sam looked from him, to his three friends, wondering if this was a joke. It clearly wasn't, if their expectant faces were anything to go by. He huffed out a small laugh – but, no, it still wasn't any more of a joke than it was five seconds ago.

"You can't be serious,"  
"Deadly!" The other guy – Sam remembered now, they'd met in West Texas when he'd just left Stanford a few years back – Harry. "Or, at least – an honorary member, technically," He said with a stupid business-like face.  
"It doesn't matter," The girl butted in – Sam thought her name was Maggie – with a roll of her eyes, "The thing is, we need your help. It's this case. We don't know what to make of it, and we could use an extra set of hands,"

Sam shut the door half way, and pressed his forehead against it, taking a calming breath and shutting his eyes for a moment. These idiots were trying to get themselves killed. Again. Just like at the house with that ghost that made him go to the corpse-birthday-party. Just another day in the life of Sam fucking Winchester.

And now he was stuck with everyone's least-favourite ghost hunters. Unbelievable.


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: **thanks for the reviews guys! I really need to think of a better title for this. _

_Let me know what you think! _

* * *

Sam opened the door fully again, and considered the Ghostfacers. They looked slightly less nerdy than last time, maybe because there were only two moderately-large cameras in site; maybe because they'd learnt what the correct hunting garb was. Maggie was biting her lip; Ed and Harry were looking at him like they wanted to burn holes in him; Spruce (that was the other guy's name, he was sure now) was surreptitiously raising the camera to film him again.

"I guess you guys better come in, then," He sighed. He realised he'd been doing that a lot today, and they hadn't even stepped over the threshold yet. "Oh, but-"  
"Way ahead of you," Ed smirked as he stepped over the salt line, and pulled up his shirt sleeve to show an anti-possession charm. The others followed suit, but Sam still wasn't convinced.

"I still gotta check to see if you're Leviathans," He pointed out, striding over to the kitchen-area cupboards and withdrawing some pre-made Borax solution. He sloshed some onto each Ghostfacer as they spoke with doubtful looks.  
"If we're what?" Spruce piped up, his face screwing up in confusion.  
"Well, a few months back, there were those shootings – like, one at a bank, then another one at a diner, then I think there was one at a-"  
"I _told _you that was them!" Maggie punched Harry on the arm playfully.  
"Well, uh, actually, those were Leviathans. They sort of . . . Turned into us for a little while just to make our lives difficult," Sam said, closing the door, and going to the other windows to open the curtains. He saw Spruce snooping at the coffee table, which was totally full, but with everything set in neat little piles of obsessive order.

". . . Right," Spruce murmured mainly to himself.  
"See, _I _thought I recognised you – well, except from the hair-" Maggie started.  
"But then we thought, 'why would the Winchesters be shooting up a bank'? And so we thought maybe they were shapeshifters-" Harry explained.  
"They're worse," Sam said stonily, although some part of his mind wondered idly why the _Ghostfacers_ knew about shapeshifters."They bleed black blood, nothing can kill them, they can turn into you if they have your DNA, _and_ they eat people. But they're gone now,"

There was silence for a moment, before Spruce turned away from his various snooping and gave a drawn-out, "Okay . . ."  
"So, what – you've been in hiding? Is that why you're here, and all the curtains are shut and stuff?" Maggie asked, swiping a finger along the windowsill and gazed in disgust at the small layer of dust it picked up. Everything was neat, and in order, but . . . Neglected.

"Uh . . . No. No, we were for a while, but not anymore," Sam intoned in a deep voice. He really, _really _hoped they'd drop the subject. Now.  
"Speaking of 'we' – where's chisel-chest?" Ed asked casually, plopping down onto the sofa in synchrony with Harry. Sam almost flinched –

_Thanks for drinking my entire beer.  
I didn't touch your beer! Mine's right there. You probably drank it without noticing. _

- great. He guessed it was too much to hope for that they _wouldn't _ask about –

"Gone," He said quietly, that one syllable like a knife in his gut that he was trying hard not to let anyone know was there. He guessed he failed, because he saw Spruce giving him a pitying look from the corner of his eye, and Ed's face was trying to find a suitably comforting expression, and failing. "Surely Garth told you?"

"Well, he said he was sure _you'd _be here, cause he has your GPS-" Sam huffed indignantly at knowing that _Garth _of all people was able to track him, "-but he said he wasn't sure where Dean was at . . . I'm sorry,"  
"Yeah. We're not talking about this. So, what's your case?" Sam asked curtly, looking away and catching his reflection in the mirror for the first time. He frowned, and tried to sort his hair into some sort of order, tucking it behind his ears, and parting it as well as he could with his hands. He saw Maggie cast him a doubtful look, but he didn't care if he was being judged really. He looked alright for someone in mourning, who hadn't gone out of the house for a month . . . Or two . . .

"It's in California," Ed said excitedly. Sam remembered calling him to pretend to be a Hollywood producer that one time, and almost smiled. Ed always did think they could make it big-time on TV.  
"At first we thought it was a straight-up ghost - just a vengeful spirit," Harry explained, while Spruce went through Sam's stuff, not as quietly or unnoticed as perhaps he thought. It was making him uncomfortable. He wanted to put everything back where it had been before they came. He wanted them out of this place, _his _place, which hadn't changed at all since –  
"But then we couldn't find _any _history of violent deaths in the area – no murders, no sacrifices, no particularly haunted places – nada, except a few near-misses. But the EMF was still going crazy at every place people said they'd seen this ghost,"  
"What do you mean, 'near-misses'?" Sam asked, his interest finally piqued.

"Like – weird, potentially fatal stuff _almost_ happening,"  
"Yeah, it's like, some guy _almost _falls of a giant crane, except at the last minute he's able to grab onto the ladder. And then this woman's chandelier fell down, and it _almost _crushed her to death – it would have finished her if it was like, a metre to the right," Harry explained enthusiastically.  
"So . . . What? Reluctant ghost? Thinks about killing people, then goes back on it at the last minute?"  
"Potentially, yeah . . ." Sam said softly, looking at the floor and thinking to himself. What possible reason could a ghost have for going back on what it wanted to do? He'd heard of vengeful spirits, but never of vengeful _indecisive _spirits.

"And you couldn't find out who it was?" He asked. He noticed Harry smirk – they had him now, and they knew it.  
"We've got a few ideas," Spruce said confidently.  
"Like?"  
"Like . . . We'll explain when we get there,"  
"So nothing, then?"

The Ghostfacers all looked at each other sheepishly, avoiding his gaze. He huffed, and rolled his eyes.  
"We kinda heard you were the go-to guy for research," Spruce mentioned. "Garth said, out of the two of you-"

"Fine. I'll get my stuff packed. I'm bringing the Impala, though. No way I'm sharing your van with all your crap in the back," He said grumpily, looking out of the window at their beaten-up black Mystery Machine look-alike. He seriously didn't fancy cramp in his legs from being squashed up in the back of it – or, for that matter, being at close quarters with the Ghostfacers, if he could possibly help it.

"Thanks Sam! . . . Oh, man, this is gonna be awesome!" Ed was almost giggling with his excitement, and Sam guessed they were pretty stoked to have a guest star on their show who was an actual, honest-to-God hunter. He wondered how they'd get around the whole serial-killer-crime-spree thing as he took out his very carefully folded yet slightly musty shirts and jeans from the draws. He hadn't worn anything other than his sweats and some undershirts for a while now. He washed them, he dried them – he even ironed them – then wore them again. He washed the clothes that weren't his, too. They had stains. He didn't like it.

Over, and over, and over, and over, and over. Until these dweebs turned up.

He took out his duffel, checking that all his stuff was still in there – of course it was. He knew that he had to be ready to hit the road at any moment, just because of who he was; what he'd done. Of _course_ his house weapons collection was all neatly tucked away in the slightly damp-smelling canvas duffel bag. He couldn't think of anything else he needed, other than to change clothes, grab his laptop, cabin keys and car keys, and to get the hell out of here.

Enough was enough. He needed to hunt.

He suddenly realised that soon, he'd be salting and burning something. He'd been shooting something full of rocksalt, destroying, _killing_ again. He felt himself smile bitterly, and knew it wasn't healthy.

_It's not a crime to need your job, Sammy. _

He listened to the voices outside his room, in favour of the ones in his head.  
"What is it with these hunters and living in squalor? I mean, look at this place-"  
"Don't be mean, Ed. After Ambyr-"  
"She didn't die! And also, I didn't mope for two months. That's how long Garth said it'd been since he'd heard anything about the Winchesters, right?"  
"C'mon, man – he's a mess. Just be thankful he's gonna help us. We'd be screwed otherwise,"  
"Well, we wouldn't be _that_ screwed, Spruce. I'm sure we'd-"  
"Screwed, Harry. We'd be screwed,"  
". . . Okay, yeah. Whatever,"

Sam finally emerged from his room with his duffel (and the duffel that didn't belong to him, but that he wasn't about to just leave behind), yawning.  
"You okay to drive?" Maggie asked cautiously, afraid of offending him. It wasn't like he was broken, why did they all behave like he was this great big pile of problems? He was twice their size, and about ten thousand times more experienced. Amateurs.  
"Yeah, no – I'm fine, you just woke me up is all," He shrugged, shifting his fully-packed duffel on his shoulder, and eyeing the second one in his hand.  
"Dude, it's 3 o'clock," Spruce mentioned. Sam just glared at him.  
"Aren't you gonna shave first? Or take a shower?" Ed asked, looking Sam up and down.  
"Nope. I'll do it when we get there. That okay with you?" Sam asked bluntly.  
"Sure. Whatever, man," Ed replied, but he was a little preoccupied with getting a death glare not only from Sam, but from his adopted sister, too. She obviously wanted him to cut Sam some slack. Sam actually smiled – genuinely – remembering that exact look plastered all over his own face, trying to mediate Dean's 'unique' sense of humour before they offended a grieving widow. She saw this, and her face softened slightly.

"So, Sam – I hope you've got room for two in your Chevy," She said lightly, changing the subject.  
"Actually, it's not – wait, what?"  
"I'm coming with you,"  
"No – uh, I mean, no thanks. I'm fine on my own,"  
"We need to film your bio, Sam," Ed explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "People open up to Maggie more than they do to Spruce, _for some reason_," He said, with venom in his last few words, eyeing his cameraman, who promptly asked, _what?_

"No, really, I-"  
"You wanna come or not? It's a long drive, and you look like you might fall asleep at the wheel," She pointed out.  
"Yeah, I wanna come with you, but-"  
"It's settled. Come on, we'll be in Oregon before sundown,"  
"But-"

She was already out the door before he could reply.  
"See – told you she's persuasive," Ed told him, looking slightly downcast, as if remembering some bad childhood memories of Maggie bossing him about. Sam sighed – _again_ – but somewhere, deep down, he was glad he'd have something, or someone, to distract him from being in the car again without –

_Listen to her purr! _

Harry looked none-too-happy about Maggie getting into a car with a man they barely knew, but it was settled, and even Sam couldn't talk his way out of it. They all filed out of the cabin, Sam locking the doors as he left, and headed towards their respective vehicles.


	3. Chapter 3

**_AN: _**_thanks to everyone who's reviewed and favourited/put this story on their alert list! You're all lovely. _

_Just a quick note to everyone who hasn't read Journal, and so didn't see my note in that fic about the fact that I'm British, so unfortunately I'm not completely down on my American colloquialisms (despite having been to the USA 3 times and watching Supernatural compulsively). I've done some research for everything else about this fic, but that's just something I'm going to have to work on. Apologies in advance for any slip-ups! Thank you :)_

* * *

"You gonna be filming the entire way to Oregon?" Sam asked, starting up the car and trying to stop feeling so goddamn nauseous. He followed the smoking, noisy Ghostfacers truck out of the long drive, and onto the road, as he began to speak to Maggie – and her camera. She shrugged, and turned on the camera without preamble.  
"So, Sam. Tell us about yourself,"  
"Uh . . . I don't know what to say," He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, while focussing on the road and not the camera, which Maggie had spent the first few minutes adjusting to the optimum settings for the light they were in.  
"You know, like – where are you from?" Maggie persisted. He let out a short bark of laughter.  
"Everywhere, I guess. I've travelled all my life. I was born in Lawrence, Kansas, but we only lived there til I was six months old," She nodded encouragingly.  
"Star sign?"  
". . . Taurus?" He recalled, though he really didn't put as much stock in all that stuff as others did. They were always using that type of thing as pick-up lines when they went to bars, and saw girls, and then maybe _they _would turn to Sam and say something like _pilots or talent scouts_? and saunter on over-  
"Height? – I've been wondering, actually," She admitted, looking him up and down with curiosity. She'd helpfully provided him with an opportunity to stop reminiscing before he thought directly about his brother again.  
"I'm 6"4," He nodded as he replied, though that had been a few years back, and he actually suspected he'd grown another inch by now, if the way his clothes fit him was anything to go by.  
"What do you do in your free time?"

And wasn't _that _the kicker. He gave her an odd look.  
". . . Nothing. Hunting's a full-time job. Every spare moment is spent on sleep - when you can get it - research, and exercise," He replied mechanically, his father's words tumbling out of his mouth like he didn't have any power over it. He looked out of his window, wishing he hadn't said that.  
". . . And what about before Dean . . .?" She left the question unfinished.

He paused for a moment. Clearly, she'd noticed that he hadn't left the cabin in a long time. What he'd just said were things he'd done in the last two months – following the textbook John Winchester guidelines about what to do with any free time – but before, when Dean had been around . . .

He felt himself go pale.

"Uh – I guess, pool? We'd watch boxing and stuff. Dean really loves those crappy Spanish-language telenovelas. Bobby, too," His words grew soft towards the end of the sentence. He'd hated those things, but there was nothing he would give to hear Dean and Bobby getting a little too into them –

_Dude . . . Ricardo.  
What happened?_  
_Suicidio.  
Adiós, ese._

"That's cool, I guess," Maggie replied, wondering who Bobby was, but not wanting to remind Sam of yet another person who she presumed wasn't around anymore. "Obviously Ed and Harry would rather have a Buffy marathon than actually go out and _live _it, but . . ."  
"And what about you?" He asked, eyeing her with intrigue.  
"What _about _me?" She asked frowning.  
"You into hunting, much? Or is it just ghosts? . . . You guys ever come across something corporeal?"

She nodded, moving her gaze to the road.  
"Yeah. Once or twice. We know about demons now, and shifters, and tulpas. We even had to look into stuff about werewolves once, just to be safe," Maggie summarised, not getting too deep into the detail of how scary _that_ had been in front of an honest-to-God hunter who'd no doubt seen _all _of those things a hundred times over, and lived to tell the tale.  
"And? . . . How was it?"  
"Scary, yeah. Kind of an adrenaline rush though, right?" She replied, wanting to find out if he actually enjoyed hunting, or if it was just his job, like any other job, but with more . . . Killing.

He shook his head in disapproval, and sighed.  
"You guys don't get it, do you? It's not an adrenaline rush. It's life or death. See, this is why a bunch of amateurs shouldn't get together and go hunting, even if it's just ghosts – cause sometimes, ghosts turn out to be something worse, or they're more complicated than you thought – just like is happening now," He chastised.  
"At least we asked you for help when we needed it! Look, we know we're in over our head here. It's not our typical haunted house deal, and we can't even figure out if it _is _a spirit, so we did the right thing, and we asked a professional. We're not stupid," She said defensively.  
"Oh yeah?" Sam snapped.

There was a moment of silence in the car, the engine purring away, adding a background noise that had been calming to Sam all throughout his childhood to the otherwise charged situation.

"Just because we're not as experienced as you doesn't mean we're dumb, Sam," Maggie said quietly, looking into her lap, and moving the camera towards the road. "You've gotta accept that or you're gonna be a pain in the ass to work with all throughout this job. So, either turn around and leave, or just accept that we _are _actually good at _some _things,"

Sam sighed, defeated. He turned to look at her for a few moments, and he saw from her face that she knew she'd won this one.  
"Like what?"  
"Like," She began, pulling out a giant road map, and unfolding it, revealing a set of neat red lines, "Navigation. I'll get you there quick as possible. I was a girl guide, we had to do a lot of orienteering. I'm _almost _glad about it now," She mentioned bitterly.

Sam smirked at the loathing in her voice before continuing, the tone of the conversation more easy now than before.

They travelled in silence for a few minutes, before Sam huffed:  
"Are they seriously going at 10 under the speed limit?" He asked impatiently.  
"Sadly, yes," Maggie replied apologetically. "They don't like to risk damaging any of the equipment. Spruce is pretty anal about it,"  
"Fine," He said shortly, and checked over his shoulder before overtaking them, the impala's engine revving loudly like it hadn't in months. Maggie cast a doubtful look behind them as the Ghostfacers' truck grew smaller and smaller as they sped away from it.  
"_They _can follow _us_," He stated, smirking into the rear-view mirror. He realised Dean might have had a fit at that feat of overtaking – the road was pretty narrow, and a little twisty for it to be completely safe.

"You drive like a crazy person," She quipped.  
"What makes you think I'm not?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.  
"Well you're not exactly curled up in a corner rocking backwards and forwards, listening to the voices in your head," She explained.

He barked out a quick laugh at that.

"You're right. Not anymore,"  
"Please say you're joking," She said, half-laughing. He guessed it was from nervousness rather than actual amusement.  
"Nope," He replied simply. "I've broken out of two institutions in my life. Okay, so the first one me and Dean _had_ to infiltrate, to help a friend of ours get rid of a wraith. Nasty business, kinda made us go guano for a while," He recalled, thinking about the levels of rage he'd experienced in that hospital. "But the second . . . Well, it's solved now. It's never coming back. Trust me,"

"Okay," She replied, though it was drawn out and uncomfortable. He rolled his eyes.  
"Are we gonna continue with the damn confessional or not?"  
"Technically it's a bio first, and a confessional second," She corrected.  
"Whatever. Enough with the morbid memories," There was a tone of finality in his voice that told her the discussion was over. "Oh, and _don't _tell the others. Thanks,"  
"Sure," She replied, distractedly fiddling with her camera, making a mental note to erase that part later.

"Where is it we're headed to, then?" Sam asked Maggie, to distract from the increasingly odd feeling of taking the driver's seat without Dean there to watch him; to make sure he wasn't going to harm his Baby in any way.  
"It's a preppy town in West California, by the sea. Full of young students. You'll probably hate it,"  
"What makes you say that?"  
"Well, you know – people who didn't go to college tend to feel a little bitter about it," She reasoned.  
"And what makes you think I didn't go to college?" He asked, looking over to her with a smirk.  
". . . Actually . . ." She reconsidered, cocking her head to the side slightly, considering it. "Did you?"

He looked back at the road, finally sinking into the familiar territory, and feeling slightly calmer for doing so. He guessed when you weren't at loggerheads with your passenger, it was easier to relax.  
"Yeah. Stanford. Pre-law,"  
"Stanford?! . . . Then why are you a hunter?"  
"It's personal. And complicated . . . And I _said _no more morbid memories," He replied vaguely, looking out of the window. He rolled it down, letting his arm rest somewhere between the inside and the outside; enjoying the feeling of the breeze on his skin. The sun was shining bright: it was late July, and the heat wasn't too oppressive for him to wear his usual flannel shirt and undershirt. He felt good, actually: usual clothes, usual car, usual dusty back-roads – someone next to him whose presence, if he didn't look at how tiny she was, he could convince himself was Dean's.

_Dean's_. He realised that, during this journey, he'd let himself think directly about his brother. It must have been contextual, the car, the smell, the noise of the engine . . . He was snapped back to the present by Maggie's voice:  
"This is a _confessional_. So, confess," She asked, her voice making it obvious about how good the reasoning was. He pursed his lips, but looked over at her and finally conceded.  
"You know I said Pre-law, right?"  
"Mmm," She replied, looking out of the front window. She was turned to face him, almost cross-legged on the large bench-like leather seat, facing towards him rather than forward. He guessed it was so she wouldn't get tired of craning her neck to see him; to get the best possible camera angles.  
"This was . . . Eight years ago. I had an interview for law school on a Monday – I'd gotten in on a full ride to begin with, so I was really hopeful I was gonna get in. But then on the Friday night before that . . ." He gulped, trying to build up the strength to talk casually about his not only his brother, after months without even thinking about him where he could possibly help it, but _Jess_. Two people whose lives would have been better – and much longer – were he not in them.  
"Dean shows up at my house, pulls me away from Jessica to work a case In Jericho. We ganked the ghost, everything was fine, and then I got home . . . And it wasn't, anymore . . . It wasn't my home," He explained as succinctly as possible, clearing his throat a little to try and dispel the sudden lump that had formed there.

She frowned, looking like she might ask something else, but then a moment of realisation hit her.  
Sam didn't have a girl living with him now . . . And the reverent way he said the word _Jessica_, not even bothering to explain who she was, because it was that _obvious_, indicated that there was still a degree of love there. Not residual break-up 'how can I live without you' superficial heartbreak, but deep, scarring levels of emotion that smothered his voice, betraying that he wasn't as tough and as void of feelings as perhaps he'd like to be.

"I'm sorry," She mumbled awkwardly. He shrugged with one shoulder, and looked out of the window, keeping one eye on the road at all times. Aside from the occasionally stupid manoeuvre, like the one he'd pulled earlier in his frustration at their slow progress, he'd always been a more cautious driver than Dean. Especially since he'd been driving when –

- _Dad . . . Dad? Dean?! . . . DEAN?!_

And he wouldn't want to repeat that. Ever.

"What I'm wondering, though," He began, changing the subject and turning to look at her with a curious expression. He gently pushed the camera down and spoke with a quieter voice as he finished: "Is how you're gonna have me on your show and not get me arrested. I've been legally declared dead like, at least twice already, and I've escaped from two mental institutions – I'm accused of some pretty serious stuff, as you obviously know from what you saw last year,"  
She suddenly understood, and turned the camera off so they could talk about the subject privately.

Humming as she thought about it, Maggie looked out of the front window and considered all the measures they could take.  
"I guess I should clear it with Ed, but I suppose we'll just have to not mention your second name. I know we said it back there, but I can cut out that audio," She strategized. "Or you could have a pseudonym . . . I assume this won't be the first time you've used a fake identity. I mean, you pretended to be from the FBI at the Morton house,"  
"You'd be correct," He confirmed with a half-smile, half-grimace, as dusty brown turned to grassy green verges. They were already making good progress.

He suddenly cursed himself as he realised it hadn't even taken her that long to pry out a few of his secrets. Damn cameras.

"So, what? Sam Smith?" She asked, although her voice was a little dubious. He shook his head, and swallowed back a small lump in his throat, as he realised that the only other name it felt comfortable to completely inhabit other than his own was, "Sam Singer,"  
"Singer?" She said incredulously. ". . . Your mother's maiden name?"  
"No – no, it wasn't," He snorted, imagining a world where he'd have to go around introducing himself as _Samuel Campbell _– the same name as his treacherous grandfather. _No way_.  
"Then why . . .?"  
"He was a friend. More like, adoptive father, when our Dad died. Bobby . . . He was a stubborn old man, and a drunk, but the best researcher you could ever meet, bar none," Sam's eyebrows pressed together, his eyes fixed a point on the moving asphalt, remembering yet another person he'd lost. She seemed to keep asking the wrong questions, and from the look on her face and the way she cleared her throat and looked out the passenger side window, she knew it, too.

"Sam Singer it is. Now . . . The hair,"  
"No," He replied flatly.  
"I'm just saying, it's pretty recognisable,"  
"It's _not_ negotiable," He didn't change his insistent tone of voice.  
"Why not?" She asked.  
"Because – it's not!" He sniped back indignantly.  
"Fine, drama queen," She muttered, and he widened his eyes, looking over at her. Trust her to get inside this car, and immediately start channelling Dean. He smirked despite himself. After a few seconds, though, her voice crept back, asking cheekily, ". . . Not even a trim?"  
"I said no!"

After a second, she laughed. Suddenly, he found himself joining her. The laugh was strange: a sudden bubble that he couldn't bring himself to repress, and that he found he didn't want to. This was a dumb conversation, yeah – but if years of travelling the country with Dean had taught him to appreciate anything, it was dumb, childish jokes.

"I'll shave when we get there. That's all," He conceded, remembering his sideburns from last year, lost somewhere in his weeks-old scruff. Maybe he would get rid of them, as a middle-ground.  
"Actually," She said, stroking her chin unconsciously as she stared at him, "Just a little stubble might help. I mean, so you look different – a little older,"

He looked over at her, and smiled, happy with the compromise.  
"I can live with that,"


	4. Chapter 4

_**AN: **Hi! Slightly longer chapter for you today. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed and favourited/alerted the story! You are all so kind. Hope you're enjoying it so far; here's a little story development for you. I promise there'll be some action next time! _

* * *

All Sam wanted to do, when they reached the motel they'd selected to stay in overnight in Portland, was sink back into a bed and sleep. Unfortunately, the Ghostfacers had other plans – _as usual_. Ed and Harry insisted on inspecting his room for 'spectral entities', despite his protests and attempts to lay down salt lines – each of which was foiled when one of the Ghostfacers managed to accidentally break the lines by tripping over them or kicking them.

Ed and Spruce were sharing a room, and Maggie had pointedly asked for a room for her and Harry, _alone_. His face was priceless, even Sam had to admit. On the way over, he'd asked Maggie, 'So, are you and Harry the show's 'will-they-won't-they'?', to which she'd replied, 'it's a definite _will they_ for now, at least'.

That didn't mean they didn't barge into his room all at once as soon as he told them which one it was. They followed him, and spread out maps on the plastic table, planning their route for the next day until they reached their proposed destination.

Of course, it was mainly Maggie that was doing the navigation with her hard-won map-reading skills, with Ed occasionally chipping in, only to back down again sheepishly when he received a harsh look from his adopted sister.

Sam smirked at that: the hallmark of a sibling relationship. It was nothing like his and Dean's, of course – not once did they refer to each other as _jerk _or _bitch_ – but it had him reminiscing all the same.

_Cause I'm the oldest, and that means I'm always right.  
No it doesn't!  
It totally does. _

Once she'd finished letting everyone know exactly their plan of action for tomorrow, Maggie retired with Harry to their room, leaving him alone with Spruce and Ed.

Sam hadn't noticed, as he'd been so distracted, that Spruce had been rifling through _Dean's _duffel_. _When he looked up, his breath hitched, and he leapt up from the seat he'd taken at the table to snatch away the bag.  
"Dude, what the hell?! What is your problem with keeping your hands to yourself?" He asked angrily. Spruce looked taken aback, and Ed made a face that plainly said, _awkward_.  
"I – was just wondering," He replied, and then tentatively held up the one item he'd managed to sneak from the duffel. ". . . What's this?"

Sam regarded the object, and then wondered how he could possibly explain it without sounding crazy.  
"It's a book," He replied simply, as if it were obvious; as if there was nothing wrong with it being in the duffel.  
"It's a book . . . About us," Spruce clarified, avoiding Sam's pass at the book, and flicking through the pages. "Ed, this is totally the book the angel had,"  
"No way – where'd you get it?" Ed asked Sam, amazed; he successfully attempted to snatch it away from his colleague. His eyes widened as he flipped through the pages, and then looked up at the hunter, anticipation of the answer clear in his eyes.  
"Wait, wait – angel? What angel? When?"  
"Uh, it was . . . Like, early 2010 – wait, what do _you _mean- 'what angel'?"  
"You know – Gabriel? Balthazar? Castiel? Inias?" Sam listed, a little frustrated that they didn't understand him immediately.  
"That – that second last one," Ed confirmed, "He shattered our Shatner,"  
"He – okay, whatever," Sam began, but decided that was probably something you had to be there for. He was a little put out when they mentioned how long ago this had been: he'd been wondering if Cas was still alive, and had visited them. "Anyway, he had that book?"

He was met with a round of nods. Sam sighed, and rubbed his hand down his face. He guessed he was going to have to get used to the stubble, as Ed had agreed with Maggie's quasi-disguise and pseudonym plan.

"He had it because . . . Well, there's this prophet – his name is Chuck, and he write books about our lives – I mean, Dean and I," Sam explained, wincing as he waited for the crazy reaction he was likely to get.  
"So – this book," Ed began slowly, eyeing the cover with slight suspicion, "Only has us in it cause you met us that one time at the Morton house,"  
"Yeah. Pretty much,"

The two Ghostfacers looked a bit disappointed that they weren't the stars of the series.

"But, why would a prophet write about _you_?" Ed asked, wrinkling his nose slightly in distain. Sam ignored it.  
"Seriously, you do _not _want to know," He shut that whole conversation down.  
"So, do you have fans and stuff?" Ed wondered aloud, curious now about the relative size of their respective fan followings. He sure hoped that the Ghostfacers' website was better known than the _Supernatural _series.  
"Yeah. We, uh – we had to go to a convention once," Sam blushed, remembering not only the first and second times he'd met Becky, but the third time, when she'd drugged and married him. He was really glad Chuck wasn't still publishing the books, or he'd never hear the end of _that _particular adventure. Not that Dean ever let him forget it-

_You mean she wasn't really the love of your life?  
Shut up! _

"Do you have LARPers? - Do they LARP your lives?!" Spruce asked enthusiastically.  
". . . Unfortunately, yes," The hunter shuddered.  
"That is _so _cool," Spruce said reverently. "I love LARPing. I'm one sixteenth Native American so sometimes I go to these re-enactments and-"  
"How do you know so many angels? – How many do you know?" Ed asked, one eyebrow raised.

Sam wasn't ready for this conversation, and he didn't have the energy for it. He sauntered over to the bathroom, placing his wash-bag there, and moved to sit on the bed, trying to signal that they should probably leave now because he wanted to get some sleep.

"I haven't really been keeping count. It's double figures, at least. Most of them are dead now, though. Cas – uh, Castiel – he was a friend of mine. But he's gone too," Sam finished, looking down and picking at the stray threads on the comforter.

"Well, you learn something new every day – did _not _know angels could die," Spruce articulated blithely, and Sam glared at him for how obviously insensitive he was being.  
"Um . . . We'll get going now. Early morning tomorrow. 6:30 start, remember!" Ed reminded Sam quickly, distracting from his colleague's ignorant statement. The last Winchester nodded, and they filed out of his room at length. He strode over to shut the door, but didn't bolt it in case those morons needed something in the night. The wards would keep out anything that meant him harm, anyway.

He used the bathroom, and strode wearily over to the bed, feeling like a zombie. He noticed that the sickly pallor he'd seen on himself in the mirror in the cabin had clung to him, clearly along for the ride. He didn't look healthy at all, and he knew it, now. As he pulled the blankets over himself, rolling over and wrapping himself up facing away from the door, he thought that, _yes_, the day had finally come that what he felt on the inside was reflected outside.

He spent a few minutes trying to get to sleep. After many hours of travelling, he still felt as if he were in the car; as if he were being rocked gently back and forth as Dean turned corners, the engine causing the car to gently vibrate, and the motion swaying him comfortingly to sleep. The imagined sound of the wheels flying over two-lane asphalt was his makeshift lullaby.

But it didn't last too long. He opened his eyes, and stared up at the ceiling; rolled onto his back, his arms crossed against his chest, as if trying to embrace himself. It was too quiet, and he hated it. If not for the Ghostfacers, he wouldn't have left the cabin; however, if he'd stayed, the thing that would have eventually driven him insane would have been the silence, he decided.

_Insane_. He wasn't sure where that line was.

So, he listened carefully: oh, there it was. He was actually genuinely grateful for the arguing couple in the next room almost coming to blows over something or other, and the loner in the next room loudly listening to a nature documentary on wildebeest. It was quiet, yes, but not silent. He couldn't deal with more silence.

He remembered Dean's knife; rolled out of bed, and paced quickly to his brother's duffel – _he knew he'd brought it for a practical, useful reason, and not just because he was a sentimental freak _– he took out the knife Dean traditionally kept beneath his pillow. It felt cold in his hand, so as he made his way back to the warmth of the covers, he clutched it close, until it felt warm enough that Dean could have been holding it under his pillow only seconds ago.

He just had to wait, was all. Just give it time.

_I'm a freak. But I'm managing it. _

* * *

The journey the next day began at 6:30, and didn't stop until many hours later. They finally reached the town of San Luis Obispo, half way between San Francisco and LA, after travelling for a day along the Western-most coast of the US. Sam stared idly out at some of the most beautiful views available in the country, but he couldn't enjoy them. _Dean never got to see these_, he thought.

For a few hours, he tried to dissociate himself from the truth of Dean's death, as thinking time set in and he found his mind wondering over the subject too much. It felt better just to pretend it never happened. _Trail's pretty twisted here. Better be careful – Dean would be mad if I crashed the impala. _

But when they got there, there was no forgetting he was gone. Not when they had to check into another motel, and he had his own room, alone again. He almost didn't hear the excited chattering of his companions as they discussed their plan of action for tomorrow animatedly. When they asked him what he thought, he just replied curtly,  
"I think it's midnight. Y'all need to get some sleep, or you'll be even less prepared for this hunt tomorrow,"

They got the message and left. He got Dean's knife and slept.

* * *

They began filming at nine o'clock the next morning in Sam's room. Harry argued that this was because Sam had more 'badass stuff' lying around.  
"What _badass stuff_?" Sam asked warily.  
"Like, knives and guns and stuff – it'll make us look more like pros," Harry explained enthusiastically. That enthusiasm was almost infectious, and Sam found himself not only rolling his eyes, but smiling slightly.  
"Or serial killers," Spruce muttered in response to that last comment. Maggie punched him on the arm.

"Alright Ghostfacers, are we gonna do what we all took sabbaticals to do, or not?" Ed asked, positioning the main camera as a vantage point where it could see the table. There were various others littered about the room and, as usual, Spruce and Maggie had one each.  
"I'm _not _a Ghostfacer," Sam protested. He didn't get a sabbatical from his work, _ever_, either.  
"You're right. You're like, a specialist," Ed replied, but the way he said 'specialist' made Sam think that he wasn't exactly a prized member of the team.

Harry cleared his throat. "Anyway . . ."  
They turned the cameras on.

"So, the San Luis Obispo, or 'SLO' haunting. This place has seen a few near-misses lately, in terms of violent 'accidental' deaths," Harry explained. "One: Larry Norton. He's a crane driver. A few weeks ago, a couple of witnesses said they saw him almost fall out of his crane cab – but at the last moment, he managed to grab onto one of the rungs of the ladder underneath. The local paper are calling it a 'miracle escape',"  
"Then there was victim number two," Ed continued, handing out information sheets neatly word-processed by one of the team – Sam guessed Harry – to everyone, much to Sam's incredulity. _Imagine what Dean would think. Their research is even nerdier than mine_. "Cynthia Greenberg. Her chandelier almost fell on her, but witnesses are saying that they saw an unknown force push her out of the way in time for her to be saved from being crushed to death. What do you make of it, Sam?"

Sam was taken aback, as everyone - and their cameras - turned to him.  
"Uh . . ." He looked at the information sheets, and his brow furrowed. "I think we need to question the victims. We don't know it's definitely a spirit yet – it could be a psychic; someone with telekinetic ability, or something. The main issue here is why these people haven't died, rather than why the accidents happened in the first place," He mused out loud. The Ghostfacers were rapt though; all nodded in synchrony like tacky parcel shelf ornaments.

"So, we should split up – some of us should question the chandelier woman, and some of us should question the crane driver,"

Blank faces all around.

"You . . . You have questioned witnesses before, right?" He asked, getting a sinking feeling. They all shook their heads, and the feeling was confirmed. He sighed in exasperation.  
"Fine. Does anyone have a suit?"

* * *

When Sam pulled up to Larry Norton's run-down house – complete with wire fencing and overgrown weeds – he was accompanied by a very reluctant Harry.  
"So what do I say if they ask for some ID?" Harry asked. Reluctantly, Sam opened the glove box, and handed Harry a leather wallet with a fake ID in it.  
"This . . . This is-" Harry spluttered.  
"Just make sure no one sees it for too long," Sam grumbled, and got out of the car, slamming the door shut with pent up frustration at having to hand his brother's prized fake ID to a Ghostfacer as he stepped into the California sunshine.

Harry blinked too much and too fast, and tried to regulate his breathing and heart rate: he wished his suit would have fitted one of the others, because he was _not _okay with pretending to be from the FBI. He wondered how Sam was going to convince Mr. Norton that his accident was an FBI matter, and so get him to talk about it to them.

Sam, meanwhile, was busy surveying all the trash around the rotting wooden porch. There were garbage bags full of empty bottles and take-out wrappers, which all stank, giving away their previous content. His nose wrinkled, but he schooled his features and knocked at the door.

"Act natural. Try not to freak out," He muttered to Harry, although it was like telling him 'try not to breathe'.

After a few minutes, they heard no noise. Sam knocked again, thudding his fist against the door; shaking it on its hinges as he called authoritatively: "Lawrence Norton. FBI – open up,"  
Harry gazed at his partner for the day, marvelling at how the broken and bleary Sam he'd seen two days ago had been stowed away in place of this _actor_; how this guy was so much older and harder than the guy they'd met at the Morton house a few years back. The only thing the three men had in common was that they were all driven to do one thing: hunt.

Eventually, they heard a scuffling inside the house, and a few seconds later it was followed by the door opening. The man revealed to them obviously enjoyed drink - even, Sam wagered, more than Dean and Dad put together.

"Lawrence Norton?" Sam asked, retrieving his ID from his suit jacket pocket. Harry followed suit, flashing his badge for the briefest of moments. "Agents Lennon and McCartney, FBI,"  
"FBI? . . . What do _you_ want?" The guy slurred, his bloodshot eyes blinking one at a time, out of synchrony with one another. Sam eyed him doubtfully.  
"We're here about your fall, Mr. Norton," Harry chipped in helpfully. Sam nodded, glad he hadn't freaked out yet. He subtly glanced into the hallway behind Larry, and took in the portraits of a couple on the wall - they were of Larry and his wife, who was clearly not in residence any more, if the state of the man's stained clothes and dirty house were anything to go by. Sam smiled politely in sympathy for the man, while Harry still looked a little like he was about to puke at any moment from stress.  
"Wha? . . . Oh, _yeah_. I told you guys already, I'm just a lucky guy," The man replied, leering at Harry, who physically recoiled slightly. Sam, who was more used to dealing with the stench and behaviour caused by booze, just sighed and continued.  
"We were wondering if you believed that there could be any foul play involved,"  
"Umm . . ." The guy considered it for a good minute, during which time Harry started to signal to Sam that they should probably leave. Sam shook his head minutely, as Larry continued looking up at the ceiling, eventually answering, ". . . No, no – I don't – I don't wanna press charges," He replied. It sounded as if he'd forgotten the question, and had just said the first thing that had seemed appropriate.  
"What?" Harry mouthed at Sam, who rolled his eyes.  
"Never mind. Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Norton. That'll be all for now," He gave another brief smile.

The door was slammed shut in their faces a second later, and they turned tail to head for the car, both shaking their heads.  
"What was that about 'pressing charges'?" Harry asked, one eyebrow raised.  
"I have no idea. Guy was so drunk that he probably didn't even know himself. I think we've solved your mystery about what caused him to fall,"  
"What? – What made him fall?"  
"Seriously?" Sam asked in disbelief, pointing at the house as he opened the driver's-side door. "He was drunk on the job, _obviously_,"  
"Oh . . . Guess that's why he didn't want to talk to us," Harry thought out loud.  
"Right. He didn't want to get caught. If you ask me, it's his own damn fault he had that accident. He's just lucky he grabbed that bar,"

They both settled into the car, and Sam started the engine, revelling once again in the sound; the smell of the leather, and the sway of the motion as they pulled away. It was all synonymous with 'home'; he just wished the other thing – the _person _it was synonymous with was with him right now.  
"What now? Cynthia Greenberg's house?" Harry asked, pulling out his notepad and rifling through the carefully hand-written details of the case, searching for her address.  
Sam nodded, "Let's hope this one is down to an actual ghost, or we've wasted a tank of gas,"


	5. Chapter 5

_**AN: **__thanks for all the reviews and support! I really love knowing that people are following this story at all, in any way. Super heartening._

_Anyway, it's my holiday from sixth form this week, so I've braved illness and stupid amounts of work to bring you this slightly-longer chapter, which contains some more development and action, hooray!_

_Thanks again for all your support!_

* * *

As it happened, Cynthia Greenberg's house wasn't so much a house, but a mansion. In order to get past the large gates, Sam had to put on his most authoritative voice and explain over the intercom system that they were there to ask Mrs. Greenberg about the chandelier incident. Though she sounded thoroughly annoyed, she obliged in letting them in.

When they pulled up to the front door, they were met by a woman in her forties whose arms were crossed, showing off numerous expensive bracelets and jewels. Her clothes, too, were expensive yet – Sam personally thought – were a little too showy. Her calculating eyes scanned over them warily, shrouded by a veil of malice. It was clear Mrs. Greenberg didn't appreciate the FBI turning up at her house, and she demanded to see some ID right away. They obliged – Harry had the hang of using Dean's ID less conspicuously now, and Sam felt a little pride at the fact he'd learned so quickly. When your badge had a picture that clearly wasn't you, or a ridiculous job title –

_Dude, I'm _not_ using this ID.  
Why not?  
Cause it says bikini inspector on it!_

– you had to learn fast to only show it briefly to civilians.

"Thanks for your cooperation, ma'am," Harry said quietly, clearing his throat and trying not to look too shifty, while not looking her in the eye.  
"You don't have it yet," She replied gruffly. It was clear to Sam that, despite her obvious wealth, she wasn't someone who was brought up in a high-class background.  
"We'll only be a few minutes,"  
"I thought the cops removing the damn chandelier for prints would be enough. But you people just can't help snooping around, can you? – we don't enjoy the law sticking its big nose into shit it shouldn't,"

"I understand that. But we're just trying to see if there's been any foul play involved," Sam pointed out. She laughed bitterly, years of smoking taking their toll on the rasping, grating noise.  
"Yeah, sure. Like y'all actually care if we die. You'd be glad to see the back of us, I bet," She turned around, taking a cigarette out of a gold case she'd retrieved from her pocket, and lighting it up as she lead them inside. Sam noted that her accent definitely wasn't typical of California.

The gaudiness of the furnishings was incredible: the colour scheme seemed to be various champagne tones – gold trimmings featured heavily. Harry stared unabashedly around, while Sam frowned at several men who were dealing with a smash in the marble floor of the reception area. The ceiling was high in the room, and two staircases flanked either side of the room. He spotted an elaborately-dressed twenty-something woman give them a dirty look, then disappear up one of the staircases and upstairs.

"You're having repairs done?" Sam asked – not because he was unsure, but because he wanted to see her reaction.  
"You're a sharp one," She sniped, blowing smoke in their faces. Harry coughed loudly; Sam couldn't blame him for that particular mishap. "Expensive fuckin' floors don't take kindly to getting smashed up by expensive fuckin' chandeliers," She explained wryly.  
"Have the police contacted you about the chandelier at all?"  
"Yeah. They said there were no signs of foul play, so why are _you_ here?" She asked, pointing sharply at Harry, who blanched, opening and shutting his mouth like a fish as he tried to think of an acceptable, professional answer. The premature creases around her eyes intensified with her suspicion.  
"Just as a follow up, ma'am," Sam replied. "So, they called you?"  
"No. My husband, Jack," She explained, as if it were obvious.  
"Of course. Mrs. Greenberg . . . Could you think of any reason why someone may wish to harm you, or your husband? Your family, maybe?" She just laughed openly at him, and Harry frowned, failing to see what was funny.  
"You're not from round here, are you?"  
"I'm afraid not, ma'am. We go wherever the bureau needs us,"  
"Here's an idea – why don't you make a list of people who _aren't _trying to kill my husband. It might be less work for you," She replied harshly. Sam just nodded, but she wasn't done: "Another idea – why don't you stop talkin' to people who you don't need to talk to. There were no prints on the damn chandelier. Check your fuckin' facts already. Is that everything?" She snapped acerbically.

"Yes, Mrs. Greenberg. That'll be all," Sam smiled at her, although it was completely fake. Her returning scowl came as she blew smoke into his face. Unflinchingly, he finished with a quick, "Have a nice day, ma'am,"  
"Mrs. Greenberg," Harry said as a means of saying goodbye, and they turned and walked back out of the door, her eyes boring into them as they did so, until they were in the car and driving out of the gates.

"So? . . . Ghost?" Harry asked with a little trepidation.  
"I'm not sure. Something dodgy's going on in that house, but I don't know if it's a haunting. Might not be anything paranormal at all. I mean, the whole thing was a bit _Sopranos_, right?"  
"Right! I totally got that vibe off that place," Harry replied enthusiastically, and Sam cast a sideways glance at him with a smirk – did _everyone_ who got in the car have to start talking like Dean? "So, what's next?" Harry asked, looking him in the eye. He turned his attention back to the road, knowing the answer right away.

"Now, we eat,"

* * *

Half an hour later, they opened the door to Sam's room, and found the other three Ghostfacers eating donuts and coffee while all on their respective laptops; they didn't even look up when they entered. The cameras were still running, though – _obviously_.  
"Um . . . Guys?" Sam asked, setting down his salad carton and water bottle on the table as Harry shut the door behind them, thoroughly enjoying his hard-earned burrito.  
"Uh?" Grunted Ed, not even looking up from his laptop, just like Spruce and Maggie.  
"You're supposed to remain vigilant at all times," Sam chastised them. He stood behind Ed, who, over his shoulder, he could see was researching the Greenbergs.

In response, Ed just snorted, making a blithe mouth-farting noise in rebuttal. Sam felt a spike of annoyance – he recalled Doc Benton, the organ-thieving zombie, sneaking up on him when he was sitting facing away from his motel room door, on the phone.

"You should really face the door, you know,"  
"What for?" Ed replied, obviously too distracted to actually acknowledge what Sam was saying. That was the final straw.  
"Because . . ." Sam grabbed a knife from the table, and in a second he had it at Ed's throat, approaching him from behind and totally incapacitating him. ". . . It makes it real easy for someone to attack you when you sit like this,"

All the Ghostfacers gave various yells – all embarrassingly high-pitched – at Sam's quick action, and Ed froze in terror, his laptop sliding off his lap in his total surprise.

"Whoa! Whoa, Sam, what the hell-"

Sam withdrew, shrugging. "Told you," He reminded them.  
"Freakin' psycho!" Ed yelled, standing up in a flash, his face red with embarrassment and anger. Somewhere out of his field of vision, Sam heard Maggie snort in laughter.  
"Just making a point. You won't do it again now,"  
"Who told you _that _was the best way of making a point?" Spruce asked, looking back to his laptop, already losing interest.  
"My dad, actually," Sam replied, a sudden hardness in his eyes that hadn't been there before, even when he had accosted Ed. ". . . He was a marine,"

"Uh . . . So anyway," Harry interrupted, wondering about the mental stability of the guy he'd trusted enough to ride around in the car with all day. "We interviewed the victims. The first guy was a total bust," He explained.  
"He was a dunk, who clearly liked to take his hobbies to work with him," Sam recalled, setting down the knife on the table. Ed eyed it with annoyance and anger, suddenly regretting his decision to make Sam's room the Eagle's Nest due to all the 'badass stuff' lying about, when some of that stuff, he realised, could be used on him at any moment. Not that Sam would actually hurt him . . . Right? He tried to convince himself that, _no, of course he wouldn't_, as he sat down at the table. He brought his much-abused laptop with him.  
"Yeah, I found out about as much from a web search," Maggie added, slightly put-out that she'd been given the non-ghost-related incident to research.  
"So we can rule out a spirit," Ed confirmed authoritatively.  
"Unless it's a shojo," Sam muttered to himself.  
"A what?" Spruce asked, calling him on it. Everyone turned to Sam, who looked surprised they wanted to know about it.  
". . . Japanese booze-spirit. You can only see it when you're drunk," He summarised quickly. "Ask your pal Garth about it sometime. But, unless he had some sort of long-term rivalry with someone who gifted him some cursed sake, we should be able to rule it out,"  
"I didn't find anything untoward in his life. Except his wife died two years back. No rivalries, though, and no criminal activity," Maggie pointed out proudly, glad she'd been able to help.  
"Good. That clears the issue slightly. Now we just have to focus on Cynthia Greenberg,"  
"Not just her – remember when I said, 'a series' of accidents?" Ed chipped in, pushing his laptop towards Sam. "Just last night, a Mr. Jason Turner was walking through town, when he was almost hit by a car. Strange thing is, the CCTV shows no one was driving the car . . . And you know how I said '_almost_'?"

Sam looked at the page the Ghostfacer had found, and saw it contained a video titled, 'Miracle Escape for Businessman'. He pressed play.

On the screen, the fat, balding man in glasses with a briefcase – a stereotypical businessman, as advertised – was strolling along the sidewalk when suddenly, a car started and pulled up behind him, going impossibly fast in a short space of time. He noticed it, and began to run, though he couldn't hope to outrun it, as he was clearly too slow and unfit. It was definitely going to run him down – even the hardened hunter's toes curled at how close the man had come to death – when the car suddenly veered to the right, as if someone had performed a handbrake turn from within it.

"Hang on, if this is a spirit . . . Did it just-" Sam began incredulously.  
"Change its mind? . . . Maybe," Spruce thought out loud.  
"-wait," Sam muttered, frowning at something he'd just glimpsed on the screen. Amongst the businessman panting, flustered and disbelieving at his lucky escape, an almost-undetectable static-like disturbance was visible. It was in the form of a figure, and was leaning in through the window of the car; it pulled back, and walked away. "Can you all see that?" Sam asked, his trained eyes searching out the figure as it moved away, and pointing it out to the others.  
"Holy crap, is that-"  
"It's a spirit. And . . ." Sam confirmed; he reached for the laptop, and spent a moment altering the contrast of a still of the video, before he was able to finish his sentence: "It's a soldier,"

He prodded at the screen, showing the Ghostfacers the obvious army attire; the helmet, the firearm, the boots.  
"Wait, that's – he's a modern-day soldier," Harry noticed.  
"That's actually good news!" Maggie pointed put. "It'll be pretty easy to find the remains,"  
"But not to get to the grave – it's not exactly gonna be easy to be inconspicuous about this," Sam mused, before pausing and folding his arms, considering what to do next.  
"So, what's next?" Ed asked the hunter, echoing his thoughts, "Uh, I mean – I'm asking your opinion, as the team leader," He added, clearing his throat to try and scrounge up some dignity after the few minutes of excitement the cameras had witnessed.  
"Well, you might not wanna film this bit – but we need to find the body, and salt and burn it. Spruce, find out about any soldiers killed from this town in the past ten years. Maggie – find out where the local graveyards are, and the least conspicuous routes to them from here . . . I mean, if Ed approves it," He added, not wanting to further bruise the lead Ghostfacer's ego.  
"Yeah, sure – get to work. But, hey – what are you gonna do?"  
"_We _are gonna pack up supplies. This ghost is finished with its crazy _near-accidents_ – they're just too damn close for comfort. This ends tonight," Sam replied definitively, and walked out of the room, heading for his car to retrieve his salt and burn supplies.

The Ghostfacers sat in silence for a moment, before Spruce asked quietly, "Why can't I walk out of a room dramatically like that?"  
"Because you're not a million feet tall and able to kill a man fifty different ways with your pinky finger," Replied Maggie, as if it were obvious.

When Sam returned with the salt and burn supplies, Spruce was trawling eagerly through the obits of soldiers from the local area. There were several candidates, but the most likely was,  
"Corporal James Spencer. 6"1 . . . That's about the right height, isn't it? I mean, from the video – he seemed quite tall. It's not a big place, and there aren't many fallen soldiers from round here . . . Not tall male ones, anyway,"  
"Good work. Does it say where he's buried?" Sam asked, flicking his lighter and checking the fuel.  
"Morning View cemetery. It's on the edge of town, luckily,"  
"Well isn't that convenient for you," Harry remarked with nervous laughter, directing his speech at Sam, who frowned.  
"You're not coming with us?" He enquired, one eyebrow raised.  
"I – I'd like to, but I'm not good with, uh, grave-digging . . . I mean, breaking the law. Did you see me earlier?" He asked, and Sam had to acknowledge that breaking the law – in any form – wasn't easy for Harry.  
"Fine. I need at least one person with me, though. One of us to dig, one of us to look out – and uh, I guess, film. Oh, and ideally, someone to wait in the car by the gates and watch for law enforcement," He strategized. "Volunteers?"

"I'm fine to look out, as long as I don't have to do too much digging," Maggie offered. Sam nodded in silent thanks, and then glanced expectantly at the other Ghostfacers. He saw Maggie elbow Harry in the ribs, with a playful taunt of _wuss! _  
"Don't we need someone better at fighting to help Sam? Like someone who's stronger, or-"

Ed's protest was cut off by a slap upside his head from his adopted sister.  
"Ow!" He complained, "I'm just trying to protect you!"  
"What do you mean, 'someone better'? Do you mean _a man_?!" Maggie hissed.  
"No, I-" He spluttered. Sam tried to hide his huff of laughter from the self-appointed team leader.  
"Shut up Ed, I _don't_ need protecting. I know how to use a salt-round shotgun – remember all that training _you _insisted we get? That _I _did best in?" She reminded him.  
"Fine," Ed acquiesced, blushing slightly at the memory of how his sister had trounced him when it came to firearms training. He supposed it helped that she had 20/20 vision. "I'll watch for the fuzz. Say no more, leave it with me," Ed replied proudly, side-stepping accusations of cowardice or uselessness with weapons by removing himself from the actual grave-digging situation.  
"It's settled, then. Spruce, I need some more detail on the spirit – can you find the circumstances surrounding his death, specifically?"

The camera man nodded, and pushed his glasses up his nose in preparation for more strenuous research. Sam smirked at the ostentatious display his colleague performed before actually getting on with the job.

The next few hours were spent researching, packing duffels with salt, fire-lighters and shovels, and – in Harry's case – retrieving more food for everyone. The last Winchester also spent a disproportionate amount of time organising his things into small piles, and clearing away detritus left by his colleagues; checking the contents of Dean's duffel obsessively, should a single item be out of place – aside from Sam's one souvenir: the knife. He chose to pack said knife in his own duffel, ready for the salt and burn later. Not that a knife was much use against a spirit – it just felt good knowing it was there. In a way, it felt as if Dean himself was with him.

If Dean was a spirit, the object he'd be bound to – aside from that damn car – would probably have been this knife.

"Well, it wasn't easy, but I've compiled a comprehensive report on GI Joe for you," Spruce announced proudly after a long while, causing the Ghostfacers – and Sam – to gather expectantly at the table. The sun was setting, and soon they'd be able to go about their mission under cover of darkness.  
"James Spencer, 30. Was from SLO, born and bred. He had a brother, younger by three years, William Spencer, who was a promising writer – he wrote a few pieces for the local paper, but he was getting more recognition. However, just a few months after James was shipped off to Afghanistan, William was killed in an accident – a hit and run, late at night, alone. Paramedics pronounced him DOA.  
"James received the news the day he died. The letter arrived the morning they were about to go out on some kind of mission, or patrol, or whatever. Anyway, point is – he got killed that day. Stands to reason he was a bit shook up by grief, right?" The Ghostfacers all nodded.  
"He's buried in Morning View Cemetery, as you know already . . . Uh, survived by mother Gill," Spruce finished.  
"Where's the brother buried?" Sam asked stonily.  
"He . . . Wasn't, he was cremated and his ashes were scattered into the sea," Spruce supplied, consulting the screen for the details.

Sam stood up, and faced the bed, grabbing his supplies, but facing away from the rest of the team.

They'd separated the brothers. They were dead, so he supposed it didn't matter anymore, but they didn't deserve it.

No wonder the guy was a vengeful spirit. The very thought of not knowing where his brother was; of not having a body . . . Sam knew that if he were to die now, with no answers about how Dean _went_-

He'd go vengeful, too.

He took a deep breath, and shut his eyes, trying not to let the case get to him at all. But . . . Brothers were never easy to deal with. Especially when your own was gone.

"Let's go," He commanded gruffly and, strangely, Ed didn't even challenge him for leadership now.

* * *

Thud.  
Thud.  
Thud.

Sam repetitively struck into the ground, sweat forming a line down his spine with the exertion. This wasn't half as gruelling, though, as the workouts he'd forced on himself every day in the cabin. The aim there had been self-flagellation; had been to exhaust himself so much that he couldn't think about that one topic he'd forbidden to let his mind wonder onto; to make himself so tired that he wouldn't be plagued by thoughts of all the times he'd let Dean down-

_One of the filthy things that we hunt_

-the times he'd failed to save him from death-

_I'm supposed to wake up!_

-or a fate worse than death-

_No, stop it – STOP IT! NO!_

Thud.  
Thud.  
Thud.

"So . . . D'you think he'll turn up?"  
"That's what the shotguns are for," Sam grunted back at her, and she frowned, but accepted that digging all night long wasn't exactly the most relaxing activity, so she forgave him a little churlishness. She cast a look around the graveyard, the light shining from her hand-held camera, waiting for an apparition to jump out at them at any time. The yellow light shone down on Sam, lighting his way as he continued shovelling dirt out of the sizeable hole in the ground.

Sam wondered if this ghost – who didn't even have the stones to properly kill its victims – would even turn up. He counted his blessings, though: if it didn't turn up, he didn't have to try and protect Maggie, and he didn't get thrown around like a rag-doll himself. He was also glad that it was a warm night – despite the sweat that clung to him just like his own cloying sense of inadequacy and uselessness – because it meant the grave-digging had been much easier than a cold night would have allowed for. He recalled endless nights re-digging graves with Dean in November, December and January; how the ground was icy and unyielding, and Dean had taken the shovel from his hands, with an assurance of, _"It's okay, Sammy. I'll have a go. You keep watch,"_

He was glad it wasn't cold, because Dean wasn't there to tell him when to stop if he didn't know himself. Dean wasn't there to relieve him of his duties; Dean wasn't there to take care of him. Not anymore.

It wasn't cold. And then it was.

As Sam drove down, hitting mahogany covered by a muddy American flag, the air temperature dropped by at least 10°C. He shot up from his bent position, snatching his salt-round shotgun from the side of the grave and poking his head over the side of the mud.

"Maggie," He called to his companion in a low, cautious voice, "He's here,"  
"Oh, shoot," She hissed, grabbing a metal crowbar from the duffel bag, so that she could continue filming one-handed, while still protecting herself. The light from the camera provided her with enough illumination to survey the immediate area, and to judge if something was about to throw her around or not – well, if that thing was _visible_, at least.

Sam retrieved his own torch from his pocket, turning it on and setting it beside the gravestone to light up the whole scene.  
"Stay alert," He reminded her, trying to keep a complete 180° view of the area.

Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, the ghost appeared next to Sam, standing above the grave. He reached down, and nimbly grabbed Sam by the throat. Managing to actually lift the hunter out of the grave with incredibly speed and strength, it looked him right in the eye as it choked the life right out of him. Sam's vision didn't so much blacken as sway and blur, his eyes moving way too fast to actually see anything; the scene turned to static, tilting to one side, and adding nausea to the already desperate need for oxygen. He tried to choke out a warning for Maggie to run, but the lack of air robbed him of the warning, too.

But as suddenly as he was there, he was gone: his hand withdrew, causing Sam to drop back down into the grave, falling flat on his back with only the flag-covered coffin as a landing point. This further winded him, and he struggled to actually inhale the warm night air that surrounded him.

Maggie panted with the adrenaline coursing through her system, lowering her arms from the position they'd been in for a few seconds, residual from her baseball-bat swing of the poker to dissipate the spirit.

After a few seconds, Sam half-hoisted himself, half-crawled out of the grave, and retrieved the shotgun he'd accidentally discarded seconds before.  
"Thanks," He panted with a grin at his companion.  
"Uh . . . You're welcome, I guess. See – we are useful for _something_," She teased. He smiled and acknowledged, finally, that she was a better hunter than he'd thought.

However, just as that thought crossed his mind, he watched dumbly as she was thrown backwards, her head narrowly avoiding a gravestone – luckily, she threw her wrist in its way. Though there was a sick thudding noise, Sam counted his blessings once again that night for the fact it wasn't her head that had been damaged. Ed would kill him, for one.

Sam saw the spirit in her place, and raised his shotgun. As he did so, he took in the spirit's appearance: army garb; a few medals; helmet haphazard; a patch of red over his heart. Could have been worse – could have been a spirit with a facial or head injury. Those were hard to look at, for sure.

But his face . . . Sam recalled, just before his vision had given out, seeing that same look in his eyes as he picked him up: slight confusion, and consideration . . . But not outright malice.

"Wait," The spirit commanded him. He barely saw its lips move; its face was shrouded in stubble, and its brow line hard with grave thoughts. Its voice was gruff, yet somehow . . . Reasonable. It wasn't hysterical like other spirits. Maybe that was why Sam listened.  
"Why?" Sam replied in turn.  
"You don't know what you're doing,"  
"Don't I?" Sam asked with a slight smirk, shifting his shotgun slightly. The spirit moved its hands up into a surrender-like position.  
"I don't mean you don't know how to use one of those things – because clearly, you do. Takes one to know one," He explained carefully. Sam nodded once, encouraging him to go on, "I meant, you don't know what you'll be doing to this town,"  
". . . How so?" Sam replied, watching Maggie from the corner of his eye. She was moving into a sitting position, leaning against the gravestone that had almost felled her, and biting her lip trying not to cry or make a noise. He noted that she was clutching her leg up to her chest, and it was bleeding.  
"I'm the only thing standing between these people, and serious damage,"  
"Looks like you're the one doing the damage, corporal. You just hurt my friend, and you tried to kill me,"  
"That was before I knew you could help me,"  
"Help you? . . . To do what?" Sam asked, narrowing his eyes. Somehow, he doubted the thing the ghost wanted help with was moving on.  
"To kill a ghost,"


	6. Chapter 6

**_AN:_**_ I cannot apologise enough for not updating in a long time! I could go on about my exams , and results, and loads of stuff changing in my life and writer's block and blah blah blah, but that's super boring so let's just get on with the story (which, by the way, I have the plot worked out for - it's just getting it down in writing that's the hard part). _

_I'll do a quick recap to jog your memories at the beginning!_

* * *

Sam saw the spirit in Maggie's place, and raised his shotgun. As he did so, he took in the spirit's appearance: army garb; a few medals; helmet haphazard; a patch of red over his heart. Could have been worse – could have been a spirit with a facial or head injury. Those were hard to look at, for sure.

But his face . . . Sam recalled, just before his vision had given out, seeing that same look in his eyes as he picked him up: slight confusion, and consideration . . . But not outright malice.

"Wait," The spirit commanded him. He barely saw its lips move; its face was shrouded in stubble, and its brow line hard with grave thoughts. Its voice was gruff, yet somehow . . . Reasonable. It wasn't hysterical like other spirits. Maybe that was why Sam listened.  
"Why?" Sam replied in turn.  
"You don't know what you're doing,"  
"Don't I?" Sam asked with a slight smirk, shifting his shotgun slightly. The spirit moved its hands up into a surrender-like position.  
"I don't mean you don't know how to use one of those things – because clearly, you do. Takes one to know one," He explained carefully. Sam nodded once, encouraging him to go on, "I meant, you don't know what you'll be doing to this town,"  
". . . How so?" Sam replied, watching Maggie from the corner of his eye. She was moving into a sitting position, leaning against the gravestone that had almost felled her, and biting her lip trying not to cry or make a noise. He noted that she was clutching her leg up to her chest, and it was bleeding.  
"I'm the only thing standing between these people, and serious damage,"  
"Looks like you're the one doing the damage, corporal. You just hurt my friend, and you tried to kill me,"  
"That was before I knew you could help me,"  
"Help you? . . . To do what?" Sam asked, narrowing his eyes. Somehow, he doubted the thing the ghost wanted help with was moving on.  
"To kill a ghost,"

* * *

Though he didn't want to take his eyes off the ghost who was asking for his help, Sam couldn't resist a glance at Maggie. There were tears in her eyes but they weren't falling. She was still clutching at her wrist. Sam's throat felt bruised as he turned, and his anger at the spirit flared a little along with it. He calmed himself to ask another question of the spirit, though.

"So, there's more than one spirit in town? Someone other than you?" Sam asked, shifting his grip on the shotgun. He was uncomfortable negotiating with something supernatural again – it reminded him too much of Ruby, and the angels, and when Bobby went vengeful . . . It never seemed to end well for them.

. . . For him. It never seemed to end well for _him_. Dean was gone. He wasn't there to help Sam when this whole scheme inevitably went belly-up.

"Yes. I've been spending my time trying to protect the people here from harm, but the other guy's making it kind of difficult," The ghost replied icily.  
"You know who it is?"  
"No. But it's nasty. Blew into town a few months ago, out of the blue. It's stronger than I am – it's angrier,"

Sam doubted that. This guy looked livid; like fury was bubbling away just under his skin, and he was madly trying to contain it in order not to lash out at Sam. The hunter guessed the only way he could stop feeling so angry was by saving people around the town from horrible accidents.

Sam shivered as a breeze blew through the graveyard. It was a warm night, but the wind was icy, and he suspected it was nothing to do with the weather.  
"So you'll help?" It demanded.  
"How can I contact you again?" Sam changed the topic. If he agreed to help, he was agreeing to trust the spirit, which he wasn't ready to do yet. "I've got to leave now, you see – my friend's wrist needs medical attention," Sam added, his eyes stony as he emphasised the fact that the ghost had hurt them, and so didn't deserve anything from them yet.  
"What's your name?" The ghost asked.  
"Sam Winchester," He replied hesitantly.  
"I . . . Regret hurting her, Sam. I will try to redeem myself," It replied, showing the slightest hint of an emotion that wasn't anger - _remorse_.

The ghost turned to looked at his grave, and held out a hand; with a look of concentration on his face, he pried the coffin lid open, after unfolding the flag from it. Sam thought to himself that this guy had some serious mojo that it would be pretty hard to go up against. Perhaps it was best to get him on their side, just because of that.

From the grave flew a set of dog tags, before the coffin lid slammed shut again. The ghost caught the tags, and threw them to Sam, whose expression was still baffled at the display of power.  
"I might not be that old, but I'm a quick learner," The corporeal muttered by way of an explanation. Sam considered the dog tags in his hand, as the ghost continued, "Use these. Just call,"

With that final comment, James Spencer was gone.

Finally, Sam was able to run to Maggie's side, and have a proper look at her wrist. The limited light from the flashlight beside the grave was sufficient for him to see that though it had bled impressively, and looked quite dramatic, it wasn't debilitating. The skin was cut from where it had landed on what he guessed was a sharp piece of concrete, but it wasn't something he couldn't deal with.

"Hey. You okay?"  
"No!" She snapped with a scowl.  
"You want me to carry you or something?" He offered.  
"_No_," She repeated, stubbornly.  
"Okay, okay," Sam replied, holding his hands up in surrender with a small smirk, not at her expense, but at his own stupidity. "I need to get our stuff together, but I'll be back real soon, okay? The others can finish up filling the grave again. Keep pressure on that,"

She nodded, tugging off her jacket with hiss and pressing it to the wound. Sam thought to himself that she sure was tough – but rather that than breaking down. Save that stuff for later.

He quickly gathered all their stuff into his duffel, sweeping it all into the canvas with disregard, so as to quickly get back to Maggie. He noticed her camera clutched in her healthy hand; he realised that, despite the pain, she'd kept it angled at him and the spirit.  
"You were filming?" He asked her, and she shrugged.  
"I'm committed," She replied simply, "Gimme a hand,"

He continued holding the flashlight as she struggled to stand up with no hands free. He pulled her up eventually by her right arm, careful of jarring her left one.  
"Thanks," She mumbled, and they began their journey back to the Impala.

When the car finally came into view, they both sighed in relief. Ed was in there, and Sam knew he was about to get yelled at for allowing his sister to be injured, but he didn't care: as long as they were back in the safety of the car, and could get to somewhere with better medical supplies and where they were less likely to be caught and convicted for grave desecration, it didn't matter.

As predicted, when they walked into the warm glow of the Impala's dipped headlights, Ed got out of the passenger side, hands on his head, eyes wide with shock and worry.  
"Oh, God! What happened? Is she – are you – Sam! What the – you said you'd look after her!"  
Either he kept starting sentences and not finishing them, or Sam's attention was waning because he simply didn't care about Ed's panicked ramblings right now. He helped Maggie into the backseat, making sure to lay down some blankets so as not to damage the upholstery that Dean had so lovingly restored after the crash, and had remained fairly pristine in the backseat come hell or high water.

"Ed," Sam cut in, interrupting the stream of abuse and questions aimed at him. "Listen to me carefully. I'm going to drive us back to the motel. I'll explain everything when we get back to the motel. But for now, stay in the back with Maggie. Help elevate her wrist, and keep pressure on it,"

Then, he wordlessly opened the driver's side door and climbed in, slamming the door against the Ghostfacer's protests and starting the car to try to get him to hurry up and get in. Fortunately, he did, and he stopped talking to Sam. He was more focussed on his sister as the last Winchester pulled out onto the road and towards town.

"What the hell happened?!" He hissed at her, but there was no real heat in it.  
"Ghost," She replied plainly, "Threw me. Strangled Sam," She added, to let her brother know she hadn't been the only one to suffer.  
"What?! You should have been more careful!"  
"I was plenty careful! Stop worrying! Jeez, Ed,"  
"You got hurt! This is _his_ fault, we should have come here-"  
"Shut up, Ed. We're Ghostfacers! We face _ghosts_!" She argued.  
"Yeah, but-"  
"Leave it, _please_," She requested with a death glare.  
"Did you at least get rid of him?" Ed asked irritably, taking Maggie's camera from her and winding through the footage. Maggie continued to press down on her wound, and bit her lip.  
"Not exactly," She admitted quietly.  
"You _didn't_-"  
"We'll talk about it later. We need the whole group," Sam interrupted gruffly, looking in his rear-view mirror to check they weren't being followed, and to look at his two bickering passengers.

The rest of the car drive went on in a tense silence after that. Strangely enough, it reminded him of every car journey where he and Dean had been bickering, until their dad had interrupted and told them to stop. Dean always stopped fighting immediately. Sam, despite fuming internally both at his father and his brother, always stopped too, in the end. He found the thought that he was having the same affect his father had had on him on his passengers rather uncomfortable. He shook himself, and turned back into the motel parking lot. They made the journey to his room in silence, too.

Sam entered first, dumping his supplies back beside his bed, and turning to Maggie.

"What – what happened?" Harry spluttered, wrapping an arm around Maggie at once when she entered the room. She rolled her eyes.  
"We got jumped," She replied, stating the obvious.  
"Sit down. I need to get a look at that," Sam pointed at her wrist. She sat on the bed, and Harry sat beside her in support.  
"Aren't you gonna tell us-" Spruce asked.  
"Triage first. Questions later," Sam recited. The rest of the group looked at one another for a moment, but they reluctantly agreed.

After a few minutes of careful manipulation of Maggie's wrist, and much deliberation, Sam determined that it wasn't broken: however, there was a long cut in it that needed tending to.

"Could someone get the first aid kit outta my duffel?" Sam asked without looking up. Spruce shot up at the opportunity: while he'd never invade Sam's duffel without his permission (he enjoyed his life too much to have it prematurely ended for trespassing), he jumped at the chance to look through it under legitimate circumstances.

A few minutes later, he retrieved the kit and handed it to Sam, who mumbled a quick 'thanks' and didn't seem to notice that Spruce had been nosing about in his bag for slightly too long.  
"You're not – you're not gonna sew that up, are you?" Ed asked, going pale. Harry shifted where he sat next to Maggie, also looking a little green around the gills.

Sam sighed, and looked up.  
". . . We'll see. It depends on how it looks once I've cleaned the area. It might look worse than it is,"  
"Right. And where's your medical degree from?" Ed snapped, still angry at Sam in the first place.

Sam looked up and briefly glared at him. "I've sewn up more wounds than I can even count. I'll try not to add this one to the list," He disclosed.

Maggie hissed when he began to clean the wound.  
"Sorry," He said softly, concentrating very hard on not making it worse.  
"I got it on film . . . It's my own stupid fault, really," She ground out. She steeled herself, and told the rest of the group: "Sam was digging the grave when the spirit appeared and tried to strangle him. I swung at it with an iron bar, and it went away for a moment. I wasn't paying attention, and it came back, and threw me around. I threw my wrist out to stop my head from hitting a gravestone, and _this _happened,"  
"So did you get it, then? Did you salt and burn it?" Spruce asked eagerly.  
"No," Maggie replied, her eyes lingering on Sam for a moment, who was rummaging around in the bag, only half-listening to the story. "It started talking to Sam, begging him not to force him to move on,"  
"So you let him go?!" Ed asked in disbelief.  
"No, dumbass. It was more complicated than that. See, there's another ghost in town. A worse one,"

There was no reply from the Ghostfacers, whose faces were all the picture of shock and awe.  
"What?" Spluttered Harry, his attention momentarily drawn from staring distractedly at Maggie's wrist.  
"Thing is, the first ghost doesn't know who the second one is. Says he popped up a few months ago outta nowhere," She explained.  
"Huh," Spruce said thoughtfully, his gaze drifting off into the middle distance.

"I think this is gonna require butterfly stitches at most. And a dressing over the top," Sam surmised at last.  
"Is that – is that bad? Do you have to use a needle and thread or something?" Harry asked, receiving a jab in the ribs from Maggie, who cringed when she thought about getting the wound sewn up with household sewing fare.  
"No. It's just sterilised strips that pull the wound together. No needles," He explained wearily, putting some gloves on.

Everyone in the room visibly relaxed. He shook his head: real hunters would understand that butterfly stitches meant it wasn't anything life-threatening, or even that bad. _I guess real hunters wouldn't be afraid of using a needle and thread, though_, he thought, remembering his and Dean's daring leap of faith from the top floor of a church, resulting in a dislocated shoulder for Dean and a hastily-self-stitched glass cut on the shoulder for him. Yup: he was certainly no stranger to the needle and thread method.

Then there was that time during the Trickster's time-loop, when he was stranded without Dean; he had to sew himself up countless times due to being stupid, and reckless, and violent, and not caring if he got hurt _because Dean was gone and he wasn't coming back- _

If only this time without Dean could be erased as quickly as that time had been, with the click of Gabriel's fingers. He sighed shakily, his amusement at the Ghostfacers' naivety gone replaced by sadness, and got on with the task at hand.

He fished the strips from the kit, and focused on putting them in place, before covering them with a dressing and finally, and bandage.  
"Do _not _get that wet. At least, not for two days," He instructed, "And no heavy exercise for two weeks, either. Take a couple of these if you want, for the pain," He added, handing her a bottle of aspirin from the first aid kit.  
"Thanks," She smiled, looking him in the eye. Harry also muttered his thanks quietly. Their gratitude was almost enough to clear away the thoughts of Dean he'd been having throughout treating Maggie's wrist. Almost.  
He spared them both a small smile, before turning to address the group as a whole.

"So, two ghosts. One claims to be better than the other. Anyone figured it out yet?" He asked, surveying the group.  
"The bad one would account for the near-deaths," Ed offered.  
". . . And the good one – he would be the reason why they were 'near-deaths' rather than actual deaths, right?" Harry piped up, looking pleased with himself for working it out.  
"Right," Sam confirmed, a small grin of pride on his face. Maybe these guys were getting it, after all. "So, the bad ghost starts a car and tries to run that businessman down-" Sam began.  
"And Corporal Spencer reaches into it, turning the steering wheel and saving his life," Ed finished, a smile creeping slowly onto his face. They'd cracked it.

"Yeah, and the bad spirit made the chandelier fall down at the Greenbergs' house-" Maggie began.  
"And the good spirit made sure it doesn't land on anyone," Harry finished.  
"Looks like we've solved it, team," Sam said casually, though he knew how much of an impact him using the word 'team' to describe all of them, including himself, would have on the Ghostfacers. Indeed, they all seemed to brighten up – even Maggie, who was still a little pale from her injury. "All we need to do now is find out who our vengeful spirit is,"

The Ghostfacers nodded in agreement. He decided this would be a good time to head outside to the ice machine – his neck was beginning to throb, and he didn't want it to swell.  
"Back in a minute," He mumbled, idly brushing his fingers against his neck and grabbing a handkerchief from his open duffel by the door.  
"The vengeful spirit could be related in some way to all the victims?" Maggie proposed doubtfully, as he headed out of the door and into the quiet night.

The only noise out there was the chirrup of crickets, and the hum of the ice machine and vending machines: there was no one else around at this hour. He made his way to the ice machine, emptied some into his handkerchief, and pressed it to his throat. He leaned against the wall for a moment, and shut his eyes in thought.

He remembered the last time he'd been choked like it was yesterday. That tiny five-foot maid had tried - and almost succeeded - to strangle the life out of him while possessed, at the time, by Bobby. His adoptive father had lost it, and tried to kill him. He supposed it was karma, dealt up years too late, for him trying to choke Dean while high on demon blood, right before he broke the last seal of the Apocalypse. He hadn't managed to finish the job, thankfully: he'd left Dean on the floor of the motel's bridal suite, wheezing the immortal words –

_If you walk through that door, don't you ever come back_.

That time in his life – the demon blood, the detox, the fighting with Dean, and the worst mistake of his life – had been haunting him a lot recently. Perhaps now – what he was doing right now, helping the Ghostfacers – maybe this was his redemption.

"You lost a brother,"

He jumped, his eyes flying open in shock and surprise, as his hand went for the gun tucked into the small of his back. When he cast his eyes on who was addressing him, he kept his hand on the gun with a grimace. It was the corporal, ethereal and grey-tinted, looking at him with a painful level of understanding in his eyes. Though still angry, he looked much less furious than he had earlier on.  
"Me too," Corporal Spencer added simply.

". . . I read about it," Sam replied eventually, after a period of time sizing the ghost up and assessing the danger to himself. He became aware of the dog-tags in his pocket as if they were burning him. He knew it was just his mind tricking him.  
"You can't let go," Spencer stated (not a question, or an accusation). Sam bowed his head, staring at the concrete for a moment, and breathing steadily. He looked back up, and boldly replied, "It takes one to know one,"

The ghost didn't say anything for a moment, but looked Sam up and down.  
"Aside from the war, Billy was my life, pretty much. Always looked up to me," He reminisced.

Sam nodded in silent understanding.  
"He's not really gone. I'll see him again one day," Spencer insisted quietly. Sam felt sorry for him, clinging to that belief: it was the reason he couldn't let go, and move on. If he thought he'd see his brother's ghost, and be able to talk to him again, he'd stay around forever. But the chances were, if William Spencer hadn't shown up as a ghost and revealed himself to James already, he'd probably moved on long ago.

James was never going to see his brother again, dead or alive.  
"Dean . . . My brother. I know he's gone forever. I'll never see him again," Sam admitted finally, looking the spirit dead in the eyes. It felt strange to say: while it was the most plain, deadeningly obvious thing in the world to have to admit to, it was at the same time heart-wrenching. His only solace was that his voice didn't break while he muttered it: it remained toneless. He wouldn't have even been able to say that two weeks ago.

Rather than agreeing with or contradicting him, Spencer jut gave him a sad smile, and disappeared.

Sam breathed out a sigh of relief, and held the ice back up to his neck. He made his way back to the room quickly, in case Spencer's ghost had somehow attracted the other ghost to their location. It was unlikely, but it happened occasionally.

He slipped back into the room, and approached the windowsill quietly. He took out the dog tag, and silently placed it behind the salt line there. He didn't really want the corporal in his room while he slept, and he seemed to just appear whenever he felt like it.

As Sam worked, he listened to the Ghostfacers' continuation of their earlier conversation:  
"It could be connected to just _one_ of the victims – I mean, it could be related to all of them somehow, but they don't seem to have a lot in common," Harry suggested.  
"Right, and then, like – it gets super pissed off, and it attacks other people in the area as well as its intended victim, just cause it wants to watch the world burn," Ed theorised with enthusiasm.  
"Could be," Sam encouraged, happy to sit back and let them do the thinking for once.

Most of them startled, having not noticed him enter through the open door due to being enthralled by their conversation. Sam shook his head at this: _they still haven't learned to remain vigilant_. Even after him surprise-attacking Spruce, they still hadn't learned their lesson when it came to being aware of their surroundings.

"Wait a second!" Spruce cried suddenly, grabbing his laptop and drawing the attention of everyone in the room. After some frantic typing and clicking, he laughed to himself, "I knew it! – I think we have a lead on which of the victims the spirit's related to-"

He spun the laptop around to the rest of the group, beaming at his discovery. "I read this a couple of hours ago, but I didn't think it would be relevant til now. It took me a while, but I remembered where I saw it eventually-"

It was an article in a local hobbyist magazine – some 'friends of the Earth'-style group for local citizens. The headline read, 'Notorious Animal Researcher Moves to SLO'. As Sam read it, his eyebrows raised gradually higher, as the author put their unique spin on the occupation of the man in question – referring to him as a 'torturer' and 'murderer' of animals amongst other things, for owning a controlling share in a pharmaceutical company that relied heavily on animal research.

The article named and shamed the shareholder: Jack Greenberg. It also mentioned that he and his family moved in around late May.  
". . . Late May. They moved in a few months ago!" Spruce clarified when he found that the rest of the group weren't reading quite as fast as he'd like.  
"Which correlates with the appearance of the ghost," Ed murmured, fascinated.  
"Looks like we're gonna have to visit the Greenbergs again," Sam conceded, not too happy about having to talk to that confrontational woman again. The rest of the group didn't seem to mind, though: they were all high-fiving one another and smiling, proud that they'd managed to figure out the tough case. Sam laughed at them, but accepted a few high-fives incredulously.

"And _scene_," Ed cried, winking at one of the nearby cameras he'd rigged up to catch this moment on film.  
Maggie rolled her eyes and punched him lightly on the shoulder with her good hand, laughing, "You're such a dork,"


End file.
